Sweet Nothings
by mako-lies
Summary: Celes and Locke attempt a conversation that does not come easily.


He can't help gasping for breath when he finds her, the long clean lines of motion, the elegant sweep of her hair, the bright glint of her sword as she practices until she too is out of breath, sweating. It has been three months and two days since she trained this hard.

"Celes," he says after a pause, where her legs shake merely from the effort of holding her up, "Celes."

Over the last year, he has found that there are so many different ways to say her name; sometimes it's a curse, other times it's a prayer, sometimes he says it fondly, sometimes with despair. Love is such a multi-faceted thing, but it is never an easy thing. "Locke," she says, voice clipped for all that she is exhausted.

"Come inside?" he asks, means it as a statement, but it comes out wrong, because he can never seem to say the right thing to her, can never tell her what she should and shouldn't do.

For a moment, she blinks at him, deciding - what, his intention? Whether or not she should even heed his presence in her life? - and then she sheathes her sword with a clean motion that does not betray her exhaustion, and he finds himself wondering again, even though that was what brought them to this moment, with her training as she has not in so long and him fumbling for the right words. "Celes," he murmurs, almost reaches out to feel her, but stops, because the air around her is ice-chill.

"Celes?" he asks, surprised now, and she averts her gaze.

Silence hangs like the snow of Narshe and then she blows out a breath, does not look at him, and offers, "It is not as before. Magic is dying - dead - but death is not so severe a cutoff. It is leaving me, but, if I try - or -" she snaps her mouth shut, teeth clacking, and then she begins again, "If I try to use it, I can push a little out. Not much - only Ice, weak at that - but that is how it is. Every day, more leaves me."

He doesn't know what to say - to her, about this, so he presses into her space, where there is chill but not like before magic died, where her sweat would be glistening ice, and he puts a hand on her cold shoulder, waits for her to pull away but she doesn't and he's surprised that that surprises him. "Celes, why didn't you tell me?"

"It didn't seem important - and I feared it would worry you," she says, her admission barely an exhale.

Then she turns to face him, her expression flat and cold like ice, and he doesn't know what to do, how to make this better, how to fix any of this. Love, love is the easy part; it's everything else they can't figure out, even a year later. He blows out a breath, resists the urge to kiss her, because that's another easy thing, so painfully easy, whereas words are - worse, so much worse.

"You should have told me," he winces with his own accusation, "Celes - look, really, look at me. Let's talk. Just - talk. We need to figure it all out."

Celes says nothing, but she reaches for him and cards her fingers through the ends of his hair, her fingernails grazing the back of his neck, and he lets himself relax, breathe with her, and she meets his eyes, and she seems lost, grasping for words she's never been good with, and he thinks about helping her find them, but then they wouldn't be hers. Maybe it makes him greedy, but he wants all that she has to offer and then some.

"I do not understand why my past is so important to you," she says finally and he nearly laughs with relief.

It's Celes's way - she does not sort through the trivial problems to find the real problem, she goes straight for the heart of the thing. Still, her words catch him off guard and he tightens his grip on her, and smiles to find her skin warming at his touch.

He takes a deep breath, inhales her scent (battle and leather, clean and sharp with winter) and then tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Celes - I love you."

As she always does, she stiffens at the words, then relaxes into them, because he tries to say it often enough that she knows the truth of it and needn't be surprised, but she has a long ways to go, and both of them know it. And then she nods, which he knows now is not merely an acknowledgement of his feelings, but also reciprocation, because she hasn't found the words yet, but that doesn't bother him, most days, today, now. "I love you, Celes," he says again, "And it's hard. Because we're - different - and we struggle with ourselves and each other, with this. But I'm not giving up, okay? Because it's important to me. You're important. We're important."

Celes blinks at him, he can see her mind working, and he will always be thankful that she is so bright, because while there is much of the world that she has not experienced, she tries to pick it up quickly.

"I see," she says and he knows she does.

Locke shakes his head, trying to clear it, and then he looks at her again, "It's important to me that I know you. What happened, back then. How you felt about it. What you wished for. You know everything about my past - and I'm getting around to telling you about my feelings now, what I want out of life next. It's something we have to work at - trust - because we both have -"

He stops - can't help but remember his doubt back then, of her, of what she did, the belief, sharp and stinging like a blizzard, that she was working with Kefka. Neither of them is to blame for what's happening between them now, this echoing silence, this uphill battle into the unknown, both of them contribute to the struggle. But the solution, he likes to think, needs to come from both of them.

"Short-comings?" she offers; he nods. "Locke, I can make no promises. I was a general, raised to be a general in a world that did let me dream. It is hard for me to comprehend much of what you offer. Do not misunderstand - I value it, I value you - but I struggle with the expectations that come with it. Love is not something I have done well with, in the past. It can be a good thing, or it can be a weapon of control. Trust is not easy, for me."

Celes shifts, uncomfortable, her hands stilling at his neck, and he allows himself a smile he hopes she understands, because they're kind of hopelessly tangled in this thing called love, struggling to make sense of the knots, and he presses his mouth lightly to hers, smiles at the warmth there, and then he pulls back again, before she can deepen it, and he says, "What can we do but try?"

It takes her moment to find her words again, but she finally murmurs, "Perhaps, someday, I will tell you of my childhood," she looks away, "For now, I will simply tell you, not all of my magic is gone yet."

And oh, oh he laughs, because whoever thought Celes had no sense of humor was far off the mark.


End file.
